Useless Scribbles
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: When Sherlock collapses at a critical point in a case, it's up to John to decipher the detective's notes on a serial killer, and stop him before he strikes again. Too bad he can't make anything out! One-shot. Complete.


Useless Scribbles

 **Summary** : When Sherlock collapses at a critical point in a case, it's up to John to decipher the detective's notes on a serial killer, and stop him before he strikes again. Too bad he can't make anything out! One-shot.

 **Rating** : T

 **Disclaimer** : I wish I owned _Sherlock_ , which is to say that I do not own it.

"You've got to wake up, Sherlock," John said from his friend's bedside. Expectedly, he received no response from the unconscious man. John tossed his hands up in aggravation, narrowly resisting the urge to throw the consulting detective's notes all about the small hospital room. "I can't read this—this Klingon!"

As though to prove it, John lifted the stack of papers and stared intently at the words—if they could be called words. Across the page was a series of loops and dashes, some connected as though written in some form of childish scribble. The doctor shook his head and dropped the notes into his lap again, then tiredly rubbed his eyes.

He'd been up nearly all night trying to decipher them, going so far as to root through Sherlock's room and books in search of a dictionary, a translator, _something_ , with no luck. And the killer was making ready to strike again.

All Watson knew was the same as the police. This unidentified assailant worked alone, kidnapped people in the dark at gunpoint, and drove them to a secret location in an unmarked van. From there the victims were tortured cruelly for three days, and then deposited in the river to wash up on shore. Another victim was taken every three weeks. There had already been four dead, and they were working hard to prevent number five.

Sherlock had apparently heard of this notorious killer, having studied a similar case years back. He suspected a copycat killer, but that was as much as anyone got out of him before he slumped to the floor, eyes rolled back into his skull.

A mild allergic reaction to a new brand of cold medicine John had bought, coupled with slight malnutrition and too little rest, the doctors had said. Nothing serious. Sherlock would simply have to sleep it off, connected to an IV line. But it had already been a day, and it was fast coming upon the date of the next kidnapping.

And John could not read his friend's notes, damn it!

There was a knock on the door, and John turned to see none other than Mycroft Holmes enter the room, looking stoic and classy as always. "I do hope I'm not interrupting," he drawled.

"Of course not," John answered. "Just wasting my time, sitting here with your ridiculous brother who can't take care of himself, and hides his illness from his roommate slash doctor slash friend."

Mycroft smiled tightly, not offended in the least and admittedly amused. "Yes. Well, I had a bit of time and so decided to stop by and see how he is getting along. I trust he has not yet woken?"

"How can you tell?"

"He's still here."

John chuffed, corners of his lips twitching upwards for a moment. "I am waiting for him to get up. Someone will be kidnapped tomorrow and tortured to death, if he doesn't wake up and tell us what this says." He slapped the notes with a knuckle.

Mycroft, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity, strolled forward and peered over John's shoulder. "Yosef Newman, London."

"Who?" John looked up from Sherlock's relaxed profile, startled.

The elder Holmes nodded towards the notes. "Can't you read shorthand, Doctor?"

"Of course I can," he said defensively. "But this is _not_ shorthand. These are useless scribbles."

"It's not standard shorthand, no."

John narrowed his eyes. "Why can't you two ever be straightforward?"

Mycroft smiled. "Perhaps if you _reflected_ , Doctor Watson. I must be going now. Good day."

Without waiting to hear John's exasperated protest nor address his sleeping brother in any way, Mycroft smoothly turned and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. John scowled, shaking his head.

"Reflected," he repeated scornfully. "I'll reflect on…Reflected?" His brow creased thoughtfully, and he examined the notes again. Then he scooped them up, on a whim, and went to the restroom.

An idea formed.

John raised the papers to the looking glass, and cocked his head so that he could see its reflection. It was shorthand, indeed, written _backwards_. Of course!

"Sherlock," the doctor said under his breath, looking impressed and annoyed all at once, "you clever bastard."

END


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